storm at a funeral – a poem

Just before this there are the dark clouds
At the window sill, my tea steeps
Cold steps out from behind steam
I think of lace on gram’aw’s table
Sheets of rain
Gray damask and linen curtains
a cough clearing the air in an empty parlor
blue skies outside, cruel joke
Still cold, though.




From younger days…



  Standing on the porch and there is smoke and it swirling around my fingers from the tip of the cigarette filling me up and there is a train passing by the big four. I am the woman Helen who started out as a line I drew on a piece of paper that became an eye and then a nose and then a face and then the neckline, the shoulders braced the clavicle the breasts the navel the shirt covering milky white skin always soft always smelling like bread pudding and cinnamon. I am Helen who makes coffee in the morning with her soft hands measuring pouring passing over the counter tearing the pink packet of sugar substitute and pouring the precious powder like cocaine into the coffee mug. I am her as she does those things while I stand on the front porch smoking and the train passes by the big four.

After taking a long hiatus…

After taking a brief (LOL five-year) break from blogging my written work, I’ve decided to take a crack at it again. An online presence has been the most difficult thing for me to cultivate as I continue to write and grow, and get ever closer to publishing my first collection of short stories.  Anyway, I’m back to build and grow within a supportive online community. If you like my posts, be sure to follow me so I can follow you, too and I can read all the interesting things you’re sharing! Feedback is always welcome on posts! Cheers!


Photo Credit: Christian Harris